Brick Shithouse: White Horse, #4

By Bijou Hunter

HEAT ღ HUMOR ღ HEA

You've heard the saying, "The bigger they are, the harder they fall."

Well, that's me in all my six foot ten glory when I first see the petite firebrand, Audrey Johansson. No, no, I don't literally fall to my knees and thank God for introducing me to the mother of my future giant babies. I'm far too rugged for such hopeless displays of schoolboy lust. However, on the inside, I immediately stake my claim on the ballbusting beauty and begin planning our entire lives.

As I see it, Audrey is a lost, little sheep searching for her sexy, super-sized shepherd. Unfortunately, her father isn't a fan of my breakneck, romantic plans. A tattooed, biker hotshot in their Kentucky neck of the woods, Cooper Johansson expects me to kiss his f'ing ring if I hope to cuddle up with his baby girl.

Never going to happen.

As the son of a junkyard dog, I can growl with the biggest of badasses. So despite Cooper's snarling threats, I have no doubt I'll win Audrey's heart as completely as she's stolen mine.

"Brick Shithouse" is the final book in the White Horse series. Containing sexual content, violent situations, and extreme profanity, this romance is only appropriate for adult readers age 18+.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bijou Hunter
• Release date: Jul 8, 2018
• ISBN: 9781540185709

Bijou Hunter

Romance Author of Contemporary, Suspense, and New Adult ~ Find me at www.bijouhunterbooks.com ~ Join my mailing list: www.bijouhunterbooks.com/mailing-list

Book preview

1-CAP

White Horse, Tennessee is fucking gorgeous in autumn. Surrounded by the season’s bright reds, yellows, and oranges, I lift my bearded face toward the cloudy sky and inhale the chilly air. The cold signals the arrival of another holiday season. The next few months will be the best time of the year. Unfortunately, autumn leads to winter when I’ll be faced with the worst holiday set forth by mankind.

Valentine’s Day.

This evil day’s primary purpose is to rub good fortune in the face of the lonely fuckers of the world like me.

I’m not a slob with food stains on his shirts or dried boogs under his nose. I’m a handsome fucker—according to my shallow mom who would never lie about beauty. Plus, I have money and a souped-up Harley. Everywhere I go, women check me out. Though considered quite the fucking catch in these parts, I’m still alone.

Just the other day, I told my brother how I didn’t think our father—a big scary fucker named Angus Hayes—would retire until he felt his three kids could run the business.

I’m well past ready to run it, Chipper said while feeding his six-year-old daughter hot dog chunks covered in mustard. Cricket is too. Hey, maybe you’re the precious angel from above who’s holding up his retirement.

Pissed at the thought of my failing our father, I growled in response to Chipper’s accusation, I’ve killed and nearly died protecting our territory.

Nearly died, my blond brother immediately snickered. No, no, you’re a badass for sure.

Are you fucking done?

Chipper only smiled because he’s an asshole and has the world at his fingertips. So, of fucking course, he wasn’t done.

You know what I think? he asked before instantly answering his question. I think your lack of skills when it comes to the ladies is why Daddy Dearest doesn’t trust you. You’re not a chip off the old block.

Our father was forty when he met Mom.

Yeah, but he was fucking chicks left and right. You’re lucky his dick didn’t rot off long before he sired his angel-heir.

All my life, my family has compared me to an angel. I used to think they were complimenting me. They fucking swear they are, but I’m beginning to wonder.

I fuck divas, not dudes.

Well, you’ve never had a real girlfriend. If you’re gay, it’s past time you fessed up and found yourself a nice fellow to settle down with.

I don’t want my dick to rot off, so, no, I don’t fuck every random diva batting her pretty eyes my way.

Whatever. I don’t care if you die alone. That’s your decision, and I love you just the way you are, man.

Shut the fuck up.

Not in front of the fucking children, Chipper growled at me before gesturing to his son who flicked his fry in my direction. Have some class, cherub-cheeks.

So maybe Chipper was right—not about having class or good parenting—but about our father expecting me to find Miss Right before he’ll officially retire from his position as top badass in White Horse.

I decide to choose this particularly fucking cold day to get my answer. My father’s mind focuses on business while we wait for visitors from Kentucky. Mom skipped the office, deciding instead to join Chipper’s wife at the park with my nieces and nephew. With Dad and me alone for the time being, I spit out the question while we wait in our bunker-style office.

Do you think you can’t retire until I get married?

Where do you come up with these fucking questions? he mutters, flashing his patented dark-eyed glare in my direction. I swear your mother puts you up to this shit.

My mom—the wonderfully snarky, staggeringly beautiful Candy—adores my father. They remain happily married after two decades together. Their bliss doesn’t mean she won’t mess with the old man just for a laugh.

Why don’t you retire then? I ask.

Because I don’t fucking feel like fucking retiring.

Mom says when you use the word ‘fucking’ too much in one sentence that you’re, uh, what's the term she used? Oh, yeah, deflecting.

Fine, I’m waiting for you to find a woman and have a few kids. That way, I’ll know your balls have officially dropped. Having heard the tragic fucking truth, why don’t you find a fucking woman and have a few fucking kids? Then your mom and I can travel the world and leave the business to you and the OG twins.

When you say you want to travel the world, I assume you don’t include Australia, land of the kangaroos, right?

Asshole, he mutters, sounding enraged, but I know he wants to smile. His thick, dark beard hides the corners of his mouth pretty well, but I’m not fooled.

Outside our office, afternoon takes hold and the temperature drops. My father and I stand near the doorway, our arms crossed, frowns on our bearded faces.

When is the RUB arriving? I ask in the too-quiet office with the only noise coming from the obscenely loud wall clock my sister bought to annoy Mom.

Dad flashes a frown at me. What the fuck are you talking about?

Rich upscale biker, I explain, describing our incoming guest—Reapers Motorcycle Club president, Cooper Johansson.

I’m not a fan of today’s youth and their stupid fucking babble, Dad grumbles, but he’s just talking shit because his back hurts after acting like a horse all weekend with four of his grandkids.

I can pick you up some Bengay on the way home if you want, I offer, fighting a grin.

One day, you’ll know how I feel. Your son will mock your age, and you’ll want to knock him on his ass, but you won’t. You’ll just say what I’m saying now, so he’ll know how much self-control you have.

I’m proud of you, Dad.

I know you fucking are, Son.

We share a smile until roaring Harleys approach our office. Neither of us moves from our spot at the office doorway. Dad taught me long ago to make people enter your space. Also, force them to follow your lead, never bow, don’t give in first, but always be willing to throw the first punch.

Two Harleys pull into the parking lot outside our standalone office. One of them is clearly Johansson. The head honcho from Ken-Marry-Your-Cousin-Tucky has a long semi-friendly relationship with my father.

The smaller figure remains hidden behind Johansson, and I think the other Harley sports pink camo. I ought to be surprised he didn’t bring more muscle as a show of force. No doubt Johansson figured my father wouldn’t be impressed.

Standing with his back to us, the blond middle-aged biker talks to the smaller biker. I’m admittedly curious about his partner in crime. Did he bring the wife or maybe one of his cute daughters I’ve heard about?

Cooper finally turns toward the building, revealing a brunette beauty too young to be Missus Johansson. She slaps a red cap over her obscenely thick hair complete with a small braid hanging from the left side. The Johansson diva isn’t fooling anyone with her ripped blue jeans, Ramones T-shirt, and red flannel top. The diva is hotter than the fucking sun, immediately warming up an otherwise frigid day.

AUDREY

On a Tuesday in June just before I finished fourth grade, I received a metaphorical life-altering gut punch. Until then, I’d been a happy kid, comfortable in my skin. My father ran the local motorcycle club along with a few legit—and not so legit—businesses. He was influential in our hometown of Ellsberg—well-liked by some, feared by others. My mom was a popular third-grade teacher. They met at the local small college and built their dream house on the same property as my grandparents.

As the youngest of four children, I felt cherished by my parents like most kids could only dream. Based on my good fortune growing up, I had confidence to spare. Though I wasn’t the smartest kid or the best looking, I was Audrey Johansson, and that meant something in my world.

Back in elementary school, a fifth grader named Josi Deacon hated me. I was the bane of her existence even though we never ran in the same circles. I don’t know why Josi noticed me at all, yet she always made clear when our paths crossed that she thought I was the worst.

Years later, I heard Josi hated me because she had a crush on my older brother, Colton. When he found out she liked him, he told everyone that she was a booger eater and he didn’t like the taste of snot. Plenty of girls had a thing for Colton, but only Josi took out his rejection on me.

Then that June, she and her friend followed me from school to the McDonald’s where I waited most days with my sisters and Colton until Mom could finish up at work. We’d share a soda and large fries while doing homework. Like usual, I arrived before my siblings. This time, I had two bitches on my tail.

Always a small kid, I couldn’t get past Josi and her friend when they cornered me near the restrooms. I braced myself for a fight, though up until then my only physical altercations involved roughhousing with my brother.

You’re not special, Josi hissed two inches from my face as her blue eyes raged. Next time you think you’re important, just remember that without your last name that no one would care if you lived or died.

Afraid she was about to hit me, I hadn’t cared about her words then. My mind was on a fight. Before she hurt me, Josi’s head was forced back until she toppled on the floor. I smiled at the sight of my sister Miranda still holding onto the other girl’s ponytail.

Did they steal from you? Miranda asked and stepped on Josi’s hand. Do I need to check their backpacks for your belongings?

I stared in awe of Miranda, ready to ask her to beat the shit out of them. Then Josi burst into sobs, and her friend started crying quickly afterward. Miranda laughed at their tears and stepped off the wailing girl’s hand. I watched Josi and her friend scramble away.

Did you see them cry? Miranda asked, still laughing as she adjusted the cap over her short, dark hair.

I couldn’t stop smiling at my sister. Soon, Lily showed up and babied me after hearing I’d been bullied. Arriving last, Colton asked if Josi wiped snot on me. When I said no, he gave me a hug.

Despite how the rest of my day turned out, I couldn’t shake Josi’s words. They taunted me long after school was out, and she moved on to middle school. The older I got, the more they nagged at me.

Would I matter if my father wasn’t Cooper Johansson? Every time a guy liked me, I wonder if he was interested in me or my name. Did people want to be my friends to get close to my family? Did I get a job because the manager wanted to make nice with my dad?

Josi went on to obsess over other people, and I did end up punching her in the face when we were both in high school. As a person, she remained unimportant in my life. Her words, though, still taunt me to this day, and I can’t imagine ever not worrying about my worth.

My pop does what he can to make me feel important—like inviting me to join him on his business trip to White Horse, Tennessee.

I’ve heard the name Angus Hayes for most of my life. The small-town crime lord does business with my father’s club from time to time. Hayes is apparently larger than average and likes to cuss. Considering I grew up around giant men who never heard a sentence that wasn’t improved with profanity, I’ve never been impressed by stories about the Tennessee big shot.

I ride down with my pop—Cooper Johansson to people that didn’t originate from his balls—on my sweet sixteen gift. I don’t ride the pink and black camouflage Harley much these days, having gotten a girl hard-on for the El Camino my pop and I fixed up together.

Before we leave, I pack clothes in the saddlebag of my Harley. Pop stands nearby, worried about possible rain.

No showboating, Pop says while petting one of our many dogs. I’m trusting you to behave on this trip.

Okay, Daddy, I say in a high-pitched dolly voice. I’ll be, oh, so very good.

My father scares many people with his ominous glares, but I’m not one of them. I think his mean looks are super sweet. If I ever meet a man with even half as scary a glare, I might fall in love.

I love you, Pop, I say and hug him. I need you to remember my words later when I make no effort to show my affection for you.

Why wouldn’t you show it?

People are disloyal monsters, Father. They’re wicked!

Pop flinches when I scream the final word, and I suspect he wishes I stomped away before yelling. His hearing wasn’t great to begin with, though age isn’t the problem as much as a lack of interest. When my sisters and I talk about our hair, he goes hard of hearing. Discussing our periods makes him completely deaf.

Once on the road, I find my thoughts returning to the disloyal monsters whose wickedness causes me—and those in the vicinity of my big mouth—so much misery.

The twins! They were once my trusted friends. I would kill for them. Die for them! Hell, even shave off my beautiful hair for them! What did I get for my love and devotion? Savannah and Avery Majors ran off to Cocoa Beach, Florida, like some kind of common trailer trash! No begging for forgiveness from them—not that they’ve attempted any—will inspire me to overlook their betrayal.

We had plans! The twins and I talked about opening a bookstore hangout for the hipster dorks from the nearby Hampton College. That dream will never be realized because I’m not interested enough in our vision to do it alone.

I’ll do it with you, Lily offered one night while I whined about the twins’ betrayal.

No, I’m good, but thanks.

My sister rolled her big dark eyes, and I rolled mine. My siblings have great eyes for rolling, and we use our God-given talents as often as possible. In fact, I think I roll my eyes while remembering the memory of rolling my eyes.

Speeding down the I-65 into Tennessee, Pop wants to beat the rain forecasted for the afternoon. Our original plan was to leave in the morning, but Mom and Pop started talking about Lily’s failed engagement and how her lame-ass fiancé kept calling the house. Somehow, this earnest discussion about my sister’s super sad failure turned into my parents needing time alone in their bedroom to watch a movie. I swear they’re like fucking dogs. Is there anything that doesn’t give them crotch itch?

I struggle to keep up with Pop who claims he was born with a hog between his legs. I always claim the hog in that statement is his cornholer, but Colton swears Pop calls his dick The Master of Ceremonies. Lily pretends my parents really are watching movies in their bedroom rather than getting sweaty and gross.

They’ve had sex four times, she announced once. Just four and they got lucky every time.

I nodded at her comment and then added, More like three times plus the clusterfuck they named Colton.

Despite my brother being a squirt of diarrhea, I have no doubt Pop wanted to bring Colton along on this business trip. Mom said something about the boys heading south until she changed the plan and sent me instead.

You need to get away, Mom whispered, hugging me tightly. We all need you to get away.

Rolling my eyes, I couldn’t believe she found me more annoying than Colton. Was she nuts? My obnoxious behavior is because I’ve been wronged! What’s Colton’s excuse for smelling like a petting zoo?

I’m happy to hang out with Pop, though. He isn’t like most people’s dads. Cooper Johansson enjoys pigging out on barbecue, driving too fast, and drinking more booze than is safe. He likes classic rock, gory stupid movies, and laughing at fart jokes.

Today, his mind isn’t on partying. He leaves the highway at the first White Horse exit, barely slows at the stop sign, and speeds down a road filled with empty school buses returning from dropping off the town’s uppity kids. I hate rich towns. Despite Hampton College and the cash Pop’s club flushes into Ellsberg, most of our neighbors are butt-poor. I prefer penniless rednecks to pompous suburbanites.

Our journey ends in the parking lot of a grotesque building next to an ancient Waffle House. Pop is off his Harley within seconds. He’s no doubt ready to get done with the hello and how you doing part of our trip. We’ll check into a hotel room and return tomorrow so Pop can talk details with Hayes.

Don’t say anything yet, he tells me when I climb off my Harley. Do you have something to cover your hair?

Why? Are these people like those mountain men who’ve never seen a woman and will go nuts once their eyes set upon my amazing hair?

Pop doesn’t answer my question, even if he’s clearly dying to respond. Put a hat on your head, keep your mouth shut, stay behind me, and don’t make any sudden movements.

I feel like we’re meeting bears.

Bears wouldn’t care about your damn hair, Audrey.

Wouldn’t they, though, Pop? Wouldn’t they? I ask while digging through my saddlebag for the red cap I brought along in case of rain.

As a kid, you wanted to run the club. If you still have any interest, you might want to pay attention.

Shrugging, I cover my head even if my hair remains clearly visible. I don’t get the point of the hat except to make me less appealing to the mountain men, but I’m done bitching this early in the trip.

The door of the butt-ugly building opens and out step two bear-sized men. I think my mouth flops open in surprise. Big men are a dime a dozen in my neck of the woods, but fucking shit motherfucker!

The term brick shithouse was created for these men. I mean, my pop’s a big guy—tall, wide-shouldered, and muscular. Mom sure nabbed a hottie back in the day, and Pop’s aged as fine as expensive wine. But fuck me with a hot poker if he doesn’t seem like a midget next to Hayes and his even bigger son.

Johansson, the older man says.

Hayes. We got in safe.

I noticed.

Pop doesn’t say a word, but I know his body language. Hayes’s comment sends my pop’s stance from relatively tense to violence-prone. I hope my dad doesn’t punch the bear man because I’m not sure he can take him in a fight. Fortunately, we brought weapons, and I’m ready to throw down.

Especially once Brick Shithouse Junior locks eyes on me and won’t let go. I try to look away. I’m no horny, fawning teenybopper hoping to hook up. No, I’m not interested at all in the very tall man with his broad shoulders and what looks like a rock-hard chest and a tight waist. Okay, so he’s hot. Yeah, whatever. I don’t care. He can be hot all he wants. That doesn’t have a damn thing to do with me. Yeah, whatever. Wait, I already said that.

Can I get a cup of coffee? Pop asks Hayes, and I’m surprised because I didn’t think we were hanging out here and I don’t want to spend time with BS Jr. over here with his perfectly trimmed beard and those coal-black eyes. What the hell, Pop?

Hayes gestures for my dad to come inside. I think to follow, but I don’t want to walk past the hunky bear asshole. Oh, and I know—for a fact—that he’s an asshole. Men always are. Even my beloved Pop is a huge jerk. He just happens to be awesome enough to overcome his jerkish ways. This guy doesn’t look as talented.

I’ll be back, Pop says, glancing back as if he’s telling me goodbye forever.

I shrug as if I’m barely paying attention. Remaining near my Harley, I pretend to check my phone, and then I look up at the cloudy sky. Yes, the sky is very, very interesting. I better keep looking at it and not the man walking toward me.

You’re Johansson’s daughter? he asks in a rough voice that seems to echo as if he’s standing in a damn cave.

Well, duh.

Which one?

Does it matter?

I’ve heard things about your family. If I know which daughter you are, I’ll know what to watch out for.

What the fuck does that mean? I growl, giving him my bitchiest glare.

I think you know.

No way do I want to tell him my name, but I know if I DON’T tell him that he’ll take my silence as fear.

Audrey. The youngest.

I’m the youngest too.

I don’t care.

You should.

Why?

Why not?

You’re stupid. Do you know that? I ask, hating him for looking so damn good and making me feel so damn bad.

More importantly, do I care?

So my pop said Hayes gave his kids stupid names. Are you embarrassed to tell me yours?

I’m Casper Hayes. Nothing fucking embarrassing about that, but my family calls me ‘Cap.’

If you don’t know why being named after a ghost is embarrassing, I don’t know if there’s any help for you.

The left side of his sexy mouth tugs up into a half smile. Mom decided my name ought to start with the same letter as the twins’.

Casper the Friendly Brick Shithouse’s good looks have me so much on edge that hearing that wicked word—TWINS—sends me into a snarling rage.

Twins are the very worst people. They’re crimes against nature.

The hunky bear taps me on the head with his giant finger. You’re lucky I don’t hit girls because some of my favorite people are twins.

No, you’re lucky you don’t hit girls. If you hit me, I’d kill you so easy.

Doubtful. You’re too tiny to do more than beat on my legs and maybe get in a shot to my balls.

Smaller is better, I grumble, never feeling shorter.

Yes, because Chihuahuas are known for beating down Rottweilers.

Don’t you dare compare me to one of those purse dogs.

You smell good and are really pretty, but I don’t know if I ought to ask you out on a date. You might be mentally unwell. At the very least, you’re twitchy.

"I wouldn’t date you if you